


The Knowledge of Spring

by astroid



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Painter!AU, Paris World Fair, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 15:03:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13250721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroid/pseuds/astroid
Summary: A dimly lit bar in Paris. Within sits two broken artist. Victor Nikiforov, the rising star among the symbollist painters of russia, and Katsuki Yuuri, whose career might have just ended. One rather bored with the flashy, extravagant parisian parties, the other drowning his sorrows in glasses of absinth. This night will bring them together. But absinth does strange things to the memory and when the exposition universelle is over.... All Nikiforov will find after the man who stole his breath is a sketch with his own distinct features drawn in an unmistakingly eastern style. He will search. He will find him. That is what he promises himself.





	The Knowledge of Spring

The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes (it never did). His swiss friend had abandoned him in favor of an (“objectively” speaking, extremely uptight) Englishman and at this point, the bustling and frankly noisy party was too much for his ears. Victor tensed his aching smile in case it was dropping. It couldn’t it wouldn’t it shouldn’t drop. His sparkling enigmatic social life was a part of his image as Russia's most prominent painter. Socialising was apparently a big part of the artistic lifestyle (a picture, contrary to popular belief, does not say anything and cannot entertain guest at galleries). So, chastised by Yakov, his mentor and teacher, he had attended this appallingly plastic (fake fake fake) event. 

The surroundings were beautiful of course. Paris almost always was. The pittoresque cobbled streets outside supplied a sense of strange calm and the roof of the relatively small club was riddled with light bulb garlands. Casting a calm light on the sweating, dancing crowd of foreign artists; musicians, dancers, painters. Artist who, in search for distraction from the pressure of the renowned fair, had made this place their home-away-from-home. A place to drown their sorrows. Which was exactly what he was doing, he supposed. 

He knows he should be happy. But he never worked like that. He knows he should be happy because of the reception he got at the “exposition universelle”. He knows he should be happy because of the way the headlines depicted him as “At the frontline of the Russian symbollist painters”. He knows he should be happy because of his cinderella-style rise to stardom. But all he felt all he was able to feel was this crawling sense of wrongness. Of being nothing but a mere spectator to the success handed to him. To his life. He felt as if he was a piece to be played. He felt like a lightbulb about to break. Unreliable, newly found, a fad. 

Every brushstroke used to be a joy. A symphony of light, of greens and blues, of love. Every work an ode to life. He took joy in finding new ways to express his love for the universe. New ways of surprising onlookers. But lately… The alcohol burned as it made its way down his throat. Lately… everything was dull. Even the sunsets had become infuriatingly bland and Victor was at a loss. 

Across the parisian club, buried in his own grueling thoughts, sat Katsuki Yuuri. The name unbeknownst to most and infamous to the rest. No, he was exaggerating. He was. He hoped he was. (The papers would let him know in the morning). Yuuri raised the delicate glass to his lips and let the few drops of sugary absinth left in it, slowly drip onto his already numb tongue. Ever since this fateful afternoon (“the afternoon of calamity”, “the afternoon of a dead career”) the entirety of Paris seemed to mock him. The audiences whispered giggles seemed to haunt his every moment spent under the eiffel towers ominous shadow. The air was becoming rapidly more difficult to breathe. Why did he let Celestino convince him to come? Why didn’t he listen to Nishigori-san? Yuuri shaked his now bone-dry glass with a fervor that made his spectacles slip down his nose. Subsequently the world became nothing but a blur. He heard them hit the floor with a ‘thud’. Like this day could get any better. 

Across the parisian club, now on the mat-clad floor, was Katsuki Yuuri. The name was unbeknownst to Victor, neither infamous nor noted. The thing known to Victor, however, was the striking artistic potential of the scene before him. The red interior contrasting beautifully with the mans black hair and blue traditional robes. Robes that were splayed out on the floor as if it were an icy lake. The man contrasting beautifully against the swishing skirts and the crowd dancing around him. Although the serenity of the man's appearance was dampened slightly by his obviously inebriated fumblings. 

The Man had his arms stretched straight out from his body, chin on the floor, palms spread open wide. Occasionally crawling forward with his bum comically in the air. He resembled a blind snail with frantic antennas as the only means of navigation. It was strangely heartwarming. The Man was making his way out onto the dancefloor. Timely, as the house band had started playing a rapid polka. Victor saw it too late. And old man Manet fell. His dance partner gave out a shrill shriek. The Man tried to get up but succeeded only in tilting a table so that whatever liquid residing on it seconds later drenched the Edouard Manet. The Man, the eastern man, the drunken man, slurred something in a foreign tongue in response. When it only enhanced Manets shouting The Man seemed to understand his mistake. Manets bushy beard bobbed as he shouted at the poor young man (his face going redder and redder by the second underneath that beard). The Man profusely tried to apologize in a heavily accented french. But to absolutely no avail.

(Why does the world hate him? He’s going to give up art. Forever. Yuuri is about to cry.)

Across the parisian club, Victor Nikiforov merely spectated.   
“Of course, monsieur! Of course!”, he heard The Man say but his voice was trembling and the discomfort was apparent. And if he knew the older painter correctly, he loved involving a higher authority. He didn't know The Man but he felt the discomfort as his own. Victor miraculously spotted the small round spectacles at the same moment as Manet decided to call for help. In contrast to every single thing Yakov had told him Victor sprang to action. 

The strange silver blob of a man that had miraculously saved him from further public disgrace led him onwards in the world of vague shapes and lights. The before oh so “relatively small” dance floor now seemed without end. Every curve had become an obstacle seemingly insurmountable. Every dent in the carpet was impossible not to trip on.

**Author's Note:**

> And at the moment, there isn't more. Consider this a teaser, a test. I simply wondered if there was any interest in a story like this? I'm sorry if you feel snubbed of a continuation. But, do you want me to write it? For years I've longed to write an epic for a fandom I love as much as this one but theres always something stopping me for some reason? Please comment if you dont think the premise is absolute shite and you kind of maybe would read my story? I would be so grateful to have some support in this thing that might seem small to some but is this GIANT thing for me. If you know someone who would like to beta this and/or help me brainstorm occassionally that would be GOLD. Thanks for your time! I hope we'll do this again!


End file.
